


Charged as Required

by snarky_saxophonist



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 2017 MLB Season, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarky_saxophonist/pseuds/snarky_saxophonist
Summary: The baseball gods are not kind.





	Charged as Required

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [boysofsummer18](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/boysofsummer18) collection. 



> what, exactly, do you have to offer to the baseball gods to lift a curse?
> 
> This is intended as a work of fiction and is not meant to reflect real life in any way. If you or anyone you know personally is tagged in this, please close out of it now.
> 
> See end notes for detailed warnings, but they're kinda spoilery. There's nothing too graphic in this fic, anyways. Let me know if there's anything else I need to warn for and enjoy!

“I swear I’m fucking cursed or something,” Kyle mutters as he throws his glove into locker after yet another loss on his record. Willy’s pretty sure Kyle didn’t mean for anyone to hear him, but he can’t blame his pitcher for getting upset. They haven’t gotten a single win for him in the six starts since he’s been back from the DL, despite several gems like today’s eight inning, one run outing.

“Sorry,” Willy says, leaning against Kyle’s locker. Kyle looks started for a moment before smiling forcibly.

“Hey, didn’t realize you were right there, sorry. How’s the hamstring? You close to coming back?”

“Soon,” Willy says, shifting his leg a little. “I’m not having any pain when I work out now, so maybe a week or two.”

“That’s great, man. It’ll be good to have you back out there with us,” Kyle says, smile becoming a little more real. “I’ve gotta hit the showers, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah, of course. Great job out there today,” Willy says, regretting saying anything when the smile slips entirely off of Kyle’s face.

“Thanks,” he says, more robotically than he ever is, even on the mound. Before Willy can open his mouth to apologize, to remind Kyle that the loss isn’t his fault, Kyle’s already on his way out of the locker room.

 

Willy can’t get Kyle’s words out of his head, though. He stares at the darkened ceiling of his hotel room, running his mind over Kyle’s whole season. Hector blowing Kyle’s start with only one strike left to win the game, going from perfect through three to giving up a grand slam, going on the DL to miss one start and staying there for over a month, and the team’s complete inability to score for Kyle no matter how well he pitches… Baseball’s a funky game, for sure, and Willy would chalk most of that up to bad luck. Usually. But with all that together, it feels like maybe there’s something else going on.

Willy’s not even sure he believes in curses, though. Winning the World Series in 2016 didn’t feel like it required breaking a curse, it just felt like winning a baseball game. Although with the rain delay, and Schwarbs’ miracle comeback, and how the whole season had felt like there was a little something more going on, maybe there was some magic involved.

Regardless, that has nothing to do with Kyle’s season. Willy’s probably just being stupid, bored because he can’t play with his team and frustrated for his pitcher.

 

Willy plays baseball in his dreams. It makes sense, given how much of his life is taken up by baseball, but it’s been nearly every night recently, and tonight is no exception.

He’s in the batter’s box, bat clenched in his hands, waiting for the pitch. He sees it well out of the pitcher’s hand, moves at just the right moment, and sends it soaring out over the field, accompanied by the roar of the crowd. A no-doubt home run.

But as Willy starts to round the bases, he glances back at the pitcher and nearly trips over the bag. That lowered head, the slight tension in the pitcher’s shoulders, the way he stands… It’s Kyle. But why on earth was Willy batting against Kyle?

The field goes silent when Willy steps on home plate, and suddenly the pitcher’s walking towards where he’s standing, now frozen in place.

“That was a good hit there,” the pitcher says. Willy can’t make out his face, as it seems to keep shifting somehow, but it’s clearly not Kyle. The body is all wrong, as well as the Dodgers uniform the pitcher is wearing.

“Thank you,” Willy says, feeling oddly like he should be showing the pitcher more respect.

“You have a keen eye. You’re going to need it,” the pitcher says, a bit of a twinkle in his ever-shifting eye, “and not just for hitting home runs.”

“What?” Willy asks dumbly, staring at the pitcher.

“You’ll figure it out,” the pitcher says. Willy’s about to ask what he means by that when one of the pitcher’s infielders, a very familiar looking black man, jogs in to talk to the pitcher. It takes several seconds for Willy’s brain to process that he’s really seeing Jackie Robinson, and in that time, Robinson and the pitcher finish their conversation. Robinson starts to head back to second, while the pitcher turns back to Willy. “It seems it’s time to resume play, which means it’s time for you to awaken.”

Willy reaches out to grab the pitcher’s arm, to ask what exactly is happening that Jackie Robinson is playing this game, but before he can, the field around him dissolves, and he blinks his eyes open to see the hotel room around him.

His alarm is beeping on the bedside table, so Willy reaches over instinctively to turn it off, mind still lingering in his dream. His baseball dreams usually revolve around playing with his actual teammates or his childhood friends and brothers, not players like Jackie Robinson and guys he doesn’t even recognize.

Shoving it aside for the time being, Willy makes his way out of bed, wincing when his still-healing hamstring twinges. He’s beyond ready to be healthy and playing once again.

 

As luck would have it, the first person Willy runs into in the weight room is Kyle. He’s got his earbuds in and intense concentration on his face as he pushes himself through a rapid set of burpees. Willy doesn’t want to interrupt his workout, especially when it seems like Kyle is working out his frustration. He takes a swig from his water instead and heads for the mats, starting to stretch out. He never would’ve thought of himself as a yoga guy, but even though he hasn’t gotten as much into the mental side of it, it’s helped his flexibility and keeps his body feeling better overall. Not that it’d helped prevent his hamstring injury, unfortunately, but it also does let him spend more time with Kyle.

“Hey, Willy.” Kyle’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts and he unfolds his body to return the greeting. Even without the earbuds and while taking a break from his workout, Kyle still looks intense and unapproachable.

“Good workout?” Willy asks, going for a neutral conversation in hopes of not putting Kyle in a worse mood.

“Eh. Not done yet.” Kyle lifts one shoulder in a shrug. From the looks of it, he’s been going at it pretty hard for awhile, and Willy says as much.

Kyle’s jaw visibly tightens at Willy’s words before he turns away, taking a long drag from his water bottle before responding. “Can always work harder. Try to get into a place where I can help the team.”

“Or hurt yourself from working too hard when the losses aren’t your fault to begin with,” Willy points out. The last thing they need is Kyle hitting the DL again.

Kyle’s shoulders slump a little, his earlier anger disappearing. “I know, logically, that I’m pitching okay, but it just feels like I’m only hurting the team. Like my starts are a guaranteed loss, no matter what I do.”

“Hey, that’s not true!” Willy protests, standing up so he can have this conversation face to face. “You’re not pitching okay, you’re pitching great. And the offense…it’ll come around. You’ll get run support someday.”

“When you’re back, right?” Kyle teases, smiling a little. It’s not his usual bright self, but it’s at least a little better.

“Hopefully before then,” Willy says, grinning back. “Now, go shower. You stink.”

“Wow, such great support from my catcher,” Kyle says sarcastically. “Thanks, Willy.”

“Anytime,” Willy says quietly, folding himself into downward dog again as Kyle heads out. If Kyle – one of the most levelheaded people he knows – is that down about his unlucky season, maybe it’s time that Willy does a little research into curse breaking.

 

Apparently figuring out how to get rid of baseball curses isn’t as easy as it seems. Willy’s initial searches reveal nothing but articles about Theo and the Cubs and Red Sox, and the next few seem to be what the Indians should do to break their curse. Privately, Willy has a few ideas on the latter, but that doesn’t help him with his task.

A more general search on cursebreaking reveals a wide variety of possible solutions. Willy’s going to veer far away from the ones that involve blood rituals and the like, but some of them seem entirely doable. An unsettling number of them mention sacrifices, which Willy also doesn’t want to deal with. Holy water, Latin incantations, and cleansing herbs seem like a good place to start.

 

Kyle doesn’t seem to suspect anything when Willy gives him a bottle full of holy water in the weight room the next day, just thanks him and drinks the entire bottle during the course of his workout. Similarly, he doesn’t notice the bag of herbs Willy slips in the back of his locker, and must think that Willy muttering in Latin next to him as they watch the game from the rail is just him speaking in Spanish.

Willy’s hopeful that one of his solutions will have fixed Kyle’s curse, if it was a curse at all, but then it’s the seventh inning of Kyle’s next start and the Cubs are down 2-0. Not an insurmountable lead, but Willy’s not particularly hopeful that the Cubs will pull off a comeback.

“Hey,” Willy says, bumping hips with Kyle after the game. “Want to come over to my place? Watch a movie, have a drink, forget about the game.”

Kyle looks tired, hair still damp from his shower and defeat in the slump of his shoulders. He perks up a little bit at Willy's offer, not quite smiling but not as glum as before. "That sounds really nice, actually. Thanks, Willy."

"No need for thanks," Willy says, brushing it off. He hates seeing his pitchers upset, and he'll never pass up an opportunity to spend more time with Kyle.

They end up ordering Chinese takeout and watching the first Iron Man movie. Willy can tell that Kyle needs a break, so he doesn't suggest any of the baseball movies his teammates are always ragging on him for not having seen.

Kyle stays quiet, but as the night wears on, he relaxes more and more until he's half sprawled across the couch, laughing at the movie along with Willy. After the post credits scene, he starts cleaning up from their dinner even when Willy tries to wave him off.

"Thank you for this, really," Kyle says once everything has been tidied. "Don't think I haven't noticed what you've been doing. I appreciate it more than you know."

"I just want to help," Willy says honestly. He wants a lot. He wants Kyle to be winning games again, he wants to be healthy, he wants to win the division and prove that they're not a fluke. "I wish I could do more."

"Just get healthy and get back out there with us, yeah?" Kyle says lightly. "But tonight was really nice. Thanks for having me over."

Kyle looks like he's getting ready to go, and Willy's seized with a sudden desire to keep him here, to extend this.

"You're welcome anytime. Actually, do you want to spend the night? I have a spare bed and toothbrush, and I'm sure you're tired after today."

"You wouldn't mind?" Kyle asks, something else in his eyes. Willy doesn't dare to hope for what it is, just nods and smiles.

"I never mind anything for you," he says, and Kyle's gaze darts to the floor and back up.

"You mean that?" he asks. Willy nods, throat suddenly tight. Kyle steps forward, puts a hand on Willy's lower back like Willy does during a mound visit, and kisses him.

Willy reacts instinctively, kissing Kyle back and reaching up to tangle his fingers in Kyle's hair. The kiss doesn't last long, both of them breaking away for air after a few moments, but neither of them can stop smiling.

"I guess I can take that reaction as an indication you're on board?" Kyle asks, hand still on Willy's back and sending sparks shooting through his body. Willy shakes his head incredulously.

"I've been on board for a long time," he says, then bites his lip to rein in his grin. "Want to spend the night? I have a large bed."

Kyle laughs, a warm, happy sound that makes Willy want to make him laugh forever. "Yeah, I'd like that."

 

"Baseball's a funny sport, isn't it?" An Indians player is leaning against the rail of the dugout next to Willy, watching the game with him. And if Willy didn't know better, he'd say the Yankees player at bat had an awfully similar batting stance to a certain all time great. 

"Yes," Willy agrees, watching as the Yankees player smokes a double out to left, leaving the long haired Giants pitcher cursing on the mound.

"So many different types playing the game," the Indians player says as a trim Asian player in a Mariners uniform steps to the plate. Willy blinks in surprise, because he's certain that the runner on second is a Yankee. "So many different ways for a team to let you down."

"Are you talking about the World Series last year?" Willy asks, tearing his gaze away from the field and looking at his companion. The man only grins, still looking out at the diamond, so Willy returns to looking there as well. A man in an old style Cubs uniform is walking out to the mound, much to the pitcher's displeasure.

"No, although that was not my club's brightest moment. Baseball games are lost. It's a game of failure and playing the odds," the Indians player says. "No, I was referring more to the players and what they do off the field."

"Oh," Willy says, wondering if Indians Jersey is trying to make a point about him and Kyle.

"No, that's been around since the dawn of baseball," Indians Jersey says, almost as if he'd read Willy's mind. "Besides, what should I care what a couple of Cubs do? My concern is my club. I might even have to interfere directly."

"Interfere directly with what? And how?" Willy asks. Indians Jersey takes his gaze off the field as the new pitcher, now a Pirate, starts warming up with the Giants catcher.

"Oh, I think you know the answer to that," Indians Jersey says, meeting Willy's gaze with eyes that don't seem quite human, somehow. There's the sound of a sharp pitch smacking crisply into a catcher's glove, and Willy instinctively looks to the plate. When he redirects his gaze to where Indians Jersey had been standing, there's nobody there. And when he blinks and opens his eyes again, he's in his bedroom, a warm body wrapped around him.

 

The thing is, Willy's always believed in the baseball gods. Curses, maybe not, but always that there's some higher power in the sport. Not dictating every play, but always there in the background. 

He can't possibly be having dreams with the baseball gods. Never mind the fact that their pitches, their swings, even the way they run the bases, all of it is nearly flawless. He'd seen no holes in the swings of any of the hitters, no command issues or meatballs from the pitchers. But they can't possibly be the baseball gods.

There's something about them that don't feel quite right for dreams, though. At the very least, it has to be his subconscious warning him of something. 

 

"Have you talked to Frankie lately?" Willy asks Javy as they head out to the field together. Willy has to do his daily drills while the trainers watch before he goes to watch Kyle's bullpen, but he figures Javy is going to be his best source on the Indians.

"Lindor? Yeah, earlier this week. He's actually supposed to call me tonight," Javy says, visibly brightening at the mention of his friend. "Why do you ask?"

"Did he mention anything about any of his teammates...being weird?" Willy asks.

Javy lifts an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"I'm not sure," Willy admits. "So he didn't say something like that?"

"No, but I can ask if you're worried about someone," Javy offers.

"No, no, I don't know who. I don't..." Willy trails off, shaking his head. It has to be someone with the Indians, but he really has no clue who it could be. It could've even been someone on the team last season who isn't there anymore. Or they could've cursed Kyle in the offseason, and there'd be no indication of it now.

“Is everything okay?” 

“I don’t know,” Willy admits. He rubs the bridge of his nose in frustration, kicking at the dirt beneath his feet.

Javy frowns and stops walking, putting a hand on Willy’s arm. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not right now,” Willy says, nodding over at where PJ is waving to him to get over to the outfield already. “After the game?”

“Of course.” Willy can feel Javy’s gaze on him as they part ways, dark eyes burning a hole in his back with Javy’s concern. He has no idea if Javy will believe him or not about his curse suspicions, but he at least knows that his friend will back him up no matter what.

 

“C’mon,” Javy says after the game, wrapping an arm securely around Willy’s shoulders and starting to steer him out of the locker room. The rest of the team is starting to celebrate the win, but Javy seems undeterred by Willy’s protests about that.

They make it all the way to Javy’s car before Javy says anything, doors securely closed so nobody else can hear them.

“What’s up?” Javy asks, staring at him across the darkened car. “Is your weirdness about the fact that you slept with Kyle last night?”

“I – what?” Willy sputters, taken aback. He’d expected Javy to just want to continue their earlier conversation, not this.

“You’re not subtle.” Javy rolls his eyes, fondness dropping from his tone. “I heard you guys making plans last night and you drove in together, even though you left in separate cars last night. Also, you’ve not been subtle over the past, hmm, three years that you’ve liked him.”

“I have been subtle!” Willy protests. “Maybe not today, but he didn’t know before last night.”

“Yeah, because he was also pining and not observant. There’s been a betting pool for years. Tommy won, damn him.”

“A-a betting pool?” Willy gapes. Maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised, given that he was read in on the bets on Bryant and Rizzo within a week of getting called up – and, now that he thinks about it, that was probably the team’s way of telling him there was no room for homophobia in the clubhouse – but still. A betting pool on him and Kyle?

“Okay, I take it that you wanted to talk about something different, then,” Javy says. “What’s going on? Why were you asking me about the Indians?”

“Can we maybe not have this conversation sitting in your car?” Willy asks.

Javy gives him a long, slow look, concern evident even in the dark. “Don’t think you’re getting out of an explanation.”

“I know, I know,” Willy mutters, staring out at the packed streets around them as Javy starts to drive. A small part of him is glad that Kyle had already made plans with his parents tonight, because much as he wants to spend more time with Kyle, he thinks Javy could be helpful with the curse issue.

 

Once they’re sitting on Javy’s couch, Javy drums his fingers impatiently on Willy’s arm. 

“No more waiting. Tell me what’s going on.”

Willy sighs and stares down at the carpet, but explains everything to Javy, from Kyle’s offhand comment about being cursed to the things he’s tried to his weird dreams. Javy’s an attentive listener, and he’s not looking at Willy like he’s crazy or running to call someone because Willy’s got brain damage.

“And since he mentioned the Indians, I dunno… Maybe one of them is holding a grudge over the World Series and cursed Kyle,” Willy concludes. 

Javy takes a moment to digest everything before speaking. “So you want me to ask Frankie if any of his teammates cursed our teammate, probably before the season even started?”

Willy winces a little. When he puts it that way, it seems like the stupidest and most ineffective way of gathering information ever. “Uh, yes?”

“Maybe we should talk to him together,” Javy suggests instead. “Do you have any idea how curses even work?”

“I have no idea if curses even exist,” Willy says, shrugging helplessly. “This is all based on a guess and dreams that don’t feel like dreams.”

“It can’t hurt to talk to him. Frankie’s a good guy, he won’t be upset or think you’re crazy.”

“I guess you’re right,” Willy says. He doesn’t really relish the idea of explaining the entire situation yet again, but if it’ll help Kyle, he’ll do it.

Telling someone he barely knows about his suspicions is exactly as awkward as Willy had expected, and Javy’s presence barely makes it better. Regardless, Frankie listens with few interruptions, then goes quiet for a moment as he thinks.

“Can you think of who might’ve done that, or are we completely off here?” Javy asks. Willy appreciates his teammate’s willingness to own the theory as well.

“I mean… You said that the…the Indians baseball god said he would do something personally?” Frankie asks. “Because Bauer got hurt today in the weight room. He was lifting and hurt his knee for no apparent reason. He’s done for the season.”

Javy and Willy exchange a quick glance, and Willy can’t ignore the slight spark of hope that rises at Frankie’s words.

“Would Bauer be the type to curse Kyle?” Javy asks.

“He’d be the most likely, I think. He didn’t take the series loss well at all.”

“Thanks, man,” Willy says. “I’ll let you guys have your chat now. See you tomorrow, Javy.”

Willy gives Javy’s shoulder a squeeze, letting himself out of the apartment before Javy can protest his departure. Of course, he realizes a moment too late that Javy drove him here and he has no way to get back to his apartment, but it’s a nice evening.

 

Willy can’t fall asleep that night, no matter how hard he tries. He wants to talk to Kyle, because surely this curse issue has to be resolved now that a baseball god stepped in and punished Bauer for it. Kyle would almost certainly just laugh at him and affectionately call Willy ridiculous and superstitious, and anyways he should be sleeping. It’s a good thing Willy’s not going to be starting tomorrow.

After a few hours of futilely lying in bed, Willy gives up on sleep entirely and grabs his laptop from his desk, opening Netflix and scrolling through the shows there. He’s too tired to want something that will require much brain power, so he settles on Parks and Rec, which he’s seen too many times to need to think about it.

It’s only two episodes in when Willy feels his eyelids start to slide shut. Turning it off would require more effort than he wants to expend right now, so he just grabs his pillow and snuggles deeper under the covers. 

His dreams aren’t about baseball that night. At least, he doesn’t think so, considering he wakes up not remembering anything he’d dreamed about. Hopefully that means the baseball gods have nothing more to say to him, because Kyle’s curse has been lifted. He wishes that there was a way to know for sure before Kyle’s next start.

 

In the meantime, Willy gets off the DL, strikes out as a pinch hitter, and catches a couple of innings. It’s exhilarating, being back with the team down the stretch as they look to lock up the division, and it’s even better because he gets to go home with Kyle afterwards.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Kyle murmurs to him, kissing Willy’s forehead as they’re lying in bed two nights before Kyle’s next start. “It’s not the same without you.”

“We haven’t played a game together,” Willy points out.

“Still, it’s not the same when you’re not playing. I like seeing you on the field and getting your take on the hitters before I have to face them.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be catching for you next start,” Willy says, snuggling in closer to Kyle. “Probably get tomorrow off.”

“How’s the hammie?” Kyle asks. He reaches down as if to touch his hamstring, and instead squeezes Willy’s ass. Willy yelps in surprise, elbowing Kyle gently in the ribs in retaliation.

“Feels good. They’re just being cautious.”

“I’m glad. It’s not the same without you,” Kyle says again. He gives Willy another kiss, this time on the lips. 

“Maybe I’ll even knock in some runs for you, if you’re nice,” Willy teases when Kyle breaks away for air. It’s nice, just lying in bed with Kyle and trading soft words and soft kisses. Maybe just as nice as crouching behind home plate, locked in with Kyle and controlling their game, together, practically as one mind.

“Get me my first win of the season, huh?” Kyle teases back.

“No, of course not,” Willy says, managing to look mostly serious. “Your third.”

“Wow, and here I thought you were trying to be a nice, supportive boyfriend…” Kyle says with a very put-upon sigh. 

“I’ll support you…with run support, how about that?”

“Sounds good to me,” Kyle replies, wrapping an arm securely around Willy and pulling him in closer. “How about we get some sleep, too?”

“Yeah, for the game neither of us will play in,” Willy mutters, but he’s already yawning. Kyle laughs quietly, kissing Willy’s temple.

 

“Goddammit!” Willy yells, clenching his fists and resisting the urge to punch his locker. Breaking his hand would be the stupidest way to end up back on the DL, but he really expected Kyle to get a win. It should’ve been fixed! What the fuck had that baseball god meant by injuring Bauer if Kyle was still going to lose, after going eight innings and giving up just two runs?

“Hey, c’mon,” Kyle leans against his locker, somehow not upset despite the shitty excuse for a team around him. “What’s wrong? You hurt?”

“We should’ve fucking won,” Willy grouses, taking a deep breath and trying to calm himself. It’s not fair for him to be upset when the loss goes on Kyle’s record. 

“We’ll just get them tomorrow,” Kyle says. “Come on, let’s just go home. Use the shower there.”

Kyle’s delivery is nearly as monotone as he usually gets with games, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that indicates that his mind’s not entirely on baseball. Normally, Willy would be totally down with that. He’s too would up about the game to be in the mood, though.

“I have to see the trainers before I leave,” Willy says instead.

“You want me to wait for you, or meet you at your place?”

“I’m probably just going to go home and sleep, so you don’t need to come over,” Willy says, yanking off his jersey so he doesn’t have to meet Kyle’s eyes.

“Okay,” Kyle says, jaw a little too tight when Willy looks up at him again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Have a good night.”

 

“You haven’t figured it out yet, have you.” 

Willy’s playing baseball yet again as he sleeps, this time at third base. The shortstop next to him is the one who’d spoken, a very familiar face in a Cubs uniform.

“You’re-“ Willy starts, staring at the other player, who smiles and lifts a finger to his lips.

“Yes, I am. But you’re not supposed to know that. You’re supposed to be figuring out how to combat this curse.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Willy admits, glancing around the field. There are other players scattered around the field, but nobody seems to be playing. “It was Bauer, right? But he’s on the DL, so why is Kyle still losing?”

“Bauer’s injury is his punishment. But it doesn’t erase what he did.”

“So, what? I need to directly undo his curse? How did he even put a curse on Kyle in the first place?” Willy demands, starting to get frustrated.

“He made a sacrifice,” the shortstop says, disappointment easy to read in his dark eyes.

Willy looks at the shortstop for a long moment, reading his body language and his sad eyes, so at odds with the smile lines around them. And then he realizes.

“There needs to be a sacrifice in return, to undo it,” Willy says. He’s not asking it, but the shortstop nods anyways, a single slow, solemn movement. “I can fix this?”

“Not yet,” the shortstop says. “We need to know if your sacrifice would be worth enough. My teammates are not always as easy to convince as I am. Are you ready to play?”

“Play? Baseball?”

“Of course. What else?” the shortstop says with a bright smile. “Let’s get you some catcher’s gear and let’s get this game started.”

 

It’s the most intense game of baseball Willy’s ever played, and Willy started in Game 7 of the World Series for the Chicago Cubs. But this pitcher, not the Dodgers one this time, is amazing to catch for. This Braves pitcher is making Kyle look like a wild pitcher who struggles desperately with command.

The strangest thing, for Willy, is the lack of umpire. The scoreboard automatically changes with each pitch, and the calls always seem to be right, but there seems to be nobody making those calls. He can’t say he minds, though, especially as the ball never seems to get dirty or need replacing.

Despite the pitcher’s pinpoint command and excellent mix of pitches, the hitters aren’t looking hopeless against him like Willy would expect. The first batter does strike out, flailing at a curveball on the outside corner, but the next reaches on a smooth single to left.

It’s baseball, Willy knows that, but this is crazy. The pitcher is more calling his own game than Willy is, and the first two batters, an Athletics player and a White Sox player, have beautiful swings to watch. Willy could sit and just watch these players all day long.

The pitcher motions Willy out to the mound, and Willy trots out, ready to conference with his pitcher. This, at least, he knows.

“Lay off the curveball calls a bit,” the pitcher says. “I don’t have quite my command on it tonight. Okay?”

Willy nods his agreement and returns to the plate, slightly taken aback. The curve had ended up exactly where Willy had called it, but he supposes this pitcher knows his arsenal better. And, he suddenly realizes, he hadn’t talked to the pitcher about signs and what pitches he has beforehand. He’d just known.

The inning is over quickly, with the next batter rolling over on a two seamer, and the shortstop fielding slickly and getting it to the second baseman, who gets it to first in time to get that out as well. The most cleanly executed double play Willy thinks he’s ever seen, and he plays with Javy Báez every day.

“You’re batting third,” the shortstop tells Willy as they follow the pitcher into the dugout. Willy nearly stumbles going down the steps, turning to face the shortstop once he’s made it onto flat ground, tossing his mask onto the bench.

“I’m batting third?” Willy repeats incredulously. There’s no way he can face off against a pitcher as crazy good as the guy he’d just been catching for. He’s faced Clayton Kershaw before, and that Braves pitcher had put Kersh’s stuff to shame.

The shortstop just smiles and claps him on the shoulder, heading further down the dugout. Shaking his head, Willy sits on the bench to undo the rest of his catcher’s gear, glancing up in surprise as someone in a Cardinals uniform moves past him. As far as he can tell, these games are all NL vs. AL, but it still feels weird to be sharing a dugout and a field with other teams’ players.

Willy catches nine innings, each for a different, completely amazing pitcher. He’s not sure he can go back to catching any of his pitchers, after catching for these guys. Every single pitch would be a knockout, strikeout pitch in a normal game, but these hitters keep having great at bats. Some of them aren’t as patient as others, and some have swings Willy wants to flinch at. Some he has absolutely no clue how to pitch to, considering the complete lack of holes in their swings. The pitchers are, thankfully, good at deciding their own pitches.

In his four plate appearances, Willy manages to draw a walk and to bloop a single into shallow left. He scores on the single, when the Giants player batting cleanup hits a towering home run.

The National League ends up winning the game, 2-0. Willy receives a sedate fistbump from the Padres pitcher, then freezes as the team circles around him.

“You’re a worthy player,” one man says, a Cardinals catcher who had come out of the dugout. “And you’re prepared to make this sacrifice?”

“What is the sacrifice, exactly?” Willy asks, fear churning in his gut. He wants more than anything to undo this curse on Kyle, but if it’s at the expense of his career…

“Your season,” the shortstop says, a note of tenderness in his voice. “Which includes the postseason. All will be restored with plenty of time before spring training.”

Willy swallows hard, considering. He’s only just gotten off the DL, and he doesn’t particularly relish missing the rest of the season. But the team’s got Avila, and Rivera, and Caratini if they need someone else, and they need Kyle.

“I’ll do it.”

“The curse on your pitcher will be lifted once your sacrifice is complete,” the Dodgers pitcher, the one he’d seen the first time, says. “And perhaps we’ll see you here again someday, one way or another.”

 

Willy wakes slowly, yawning and going to snuggle in to Kyle so he can go back to sleep. When he reaches out for his boyfriend, though, the bed next to him is cold, and there’s no meow of protest from Kyle’s cat. 

Which, shit, is entirely Willy’s fault. He needs to call Kyle and apologize.

“What, Willy?” Kyle’s greeting is less than enthusiastic, a fact that’s only surprising until Willy glances at the clock next to his bed for the first time. It’s three in the morning. Willy’d been sleeping for less than three hours, although it had felt much longer in his dream.

“I’m sorry,” Willy blurts. “I shouldn’t have been mad at you. I was frustrated for you, and it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”

Kyle sighs, sounding tired when he speaks. “Come over?”

“Of course. I’ll be there soon,” Willy says, scrambling out of bed and digging through his stuff for a sweatshirt and his wallet. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just come over here and let’s get some sleep and we can talk about it over breakfast.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

It’s a quick drive to Kyle’s, and Willy’s never been more grateful that Kyle already gave him his own key to the apartment. He tries to be quiet, but the moment the door is open, there’s a thud from the other side of the apartment and running that is way too thunderous for one small cat. 

“Hey, Max,” Willy murmurs, bending down to scratch behind her ears. He’s rewarded with her head butting him in the shins and purring loudly and smiles instinctively.

Max meows at him insistently, head butting him again and trotting towards the bedroom. Willy’s never heard such a clear command to follow someone, especially one without words.

“Hey.” Kyle’s sitting up in bed, but he still looks half asleep. “Stole my cat from me, huh?”

“That was her choice,” Willy points out, climbing into bed next to Kyle and kissing him on the cheek. There’s a very indignant meow as Max jumps up on the end of the bed and immediately protests the lack of attention she’s getting. 

“You in a better place now?” Kyle asks, leaning forward to scoop up his cat and settle her next to him.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, it’s okay,” Kyle says with an affectionate smile. “It’s the middle of the night, let’s just get some sleep.”

Try as he might, Willy can’t fall asleep again that night. It’s nice, wrapped in Kyle’s arms with Max sleeping on the other side of the bed, so he doesn’t mind just lying there and resting. Better than dreaming of the baseball gods again, although it seems like that’s done for awhile.

Eventually, he feels Kyle shifting slightly against his back, and he turns to face Kyle. It only takes a few moments before Kyle wakes fully, smiling when he notices Willy in front of him.

“Good morning,” Willy says. Kyle opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by Max meowing at the top of her lungs and launching herself at them.

“I guess somebody’s hungry,” Kyle says, laughing and scratching Max’s cheeks as she stands insistently on his chest. “Do you want breakfast, too, Willy?”

“I can make breakfast while you feed Max, if you want,” Willy offers.

“That’d be great. I don’t think this little demon is going to let me do anything before taking care of her.” Kyle’s words are harsh, but Willy loves the smile on his face as he scoops up Max and heads for the kitchen.

 

It’s strange, knowing that the end of his season is coming, any day now. Willy talks Joe into letting him catch for Lackey and for Arrieta, since they’ll be leaving after the season. They win both games, thanks in large part to Willy’s own offensive contributions. Jake in particular is pumped up about the game, although he seems surprised at Willy’s bear hug in the dugout after they both get pulled.

“You know the season’s still going on, right?” he asks gruffly, but hugs Willy back. Willy’s going to miss Jake’s hugs next season. He never would’ve expected it, but Jake’s secretly a huggy guy, and his hugs are always enthusiastic and engulfing.

“I just got back from the DL, let me be happy.” Willy grins, tugging at Jake’s beard and laughing at his scandalized expression. “I picked off two runners for you, don’t kill me!”

“Fine, but just this once,” Jake grouses, giving Willy his best glare. It takes all of Willy’s control to nod seriously and walk away instead of laughing.

“Antagonizing your pitchers?” Javy asks when Willy joins him on the rail. 

Willy smiles and hip bumps Javy. “Gotta keep things interesting. We can’t all be El Mago.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Javy rolls his eyes but takes the compliment, then turns more serious. “How come you didn’t catch for Jon yesterday?”

“Just how the schedule worked out with getting me rest,” Willy says casually, shrugging. In truth, he’d asked Joe for yesterday off to be sure he could catch Jake today, letting his manager assume it was just soreness instead of giving him the real reason. He’s not sure when exactly his season will be over, but he has a feeling it’ll be tomorrow, with Kyle on the mound. Of course, he can’t tell Javy why he needed to be catching Jake today, either.

Javy shifts on the rail, turning to give Willy a long look. Willy does his best to avoid looking guilty, because he knows if he’d told any of his teammates the sacrifice he’d made they would be upset. Especially Javy, who’s been through so much and still manages to be the kindest person in the world.

“You know I’m here if you need to talk about anything, right?” Javy asks, and Willy immediately feels worse. Instead, he pastes a smile on his face and slings an arm around his friend.

“Thanks, man. I know.”

 

The next day is Kyle’s start. They spend the night at their own apartments, like they do before each of Kyle’s starts so he can keep his normal pregame routine. Willy’s unsurprised to see his name in the lineup, but he can’t ignore the dread that lodges in his gut. He really wishes that Kyle could be here and make him feel better.

“Ready to go over the game plan?” Kyle asks when Willy gets to Wrigley. 

“Of course,” Willy says, smiling brightly and gesturing to Kyle to go ahead of him to Bosio’s office.

Kyle gives him a bit of an odd look, but just heads out of the locker room.

The process of going over a game plan is something Willy has done hundreds of times, and honestly it gets a bit repetitive over the course of the season. There’s something about knowing that this is his last time participating in it as an active catcher for the season.

 

“Ready to get a win?” Willy asks, squeezing Kyle’s shoulder as they start making their way out to the mound. 

“Absolutely,” Kyle replies, game face on. Despite everything, Willy’s excited. 

Kyle’s warmup pitches are sharp and snap into Willy’s glove exactly where he wants them, and Willy hides a grin behind his catcher’s mask. This is going to be a game to put in Kyle’s history book.

Of course, the Marlins are not anything approaching a good team, but it’s still gratifying to see Stanton go down on a called third strike on Kyle’s third pitch, a changeup that drops out perfectly. Realmuto rolls over on the first pitch for an easy groundout, Báez to Rizzo. The fifth pitch of the inning is a foul, and the sixth is a soft liner that drops into Schwarbs’ glove.

“Like I said,” Willy says with a grin as he joins up with Kyle in walking back to the dugout. Kyle’s got his head down like usual, but Willy thinks he can see the hint of a smile underneath his placid expression.

“Go get ready to bat,” Kyle says flatly.

Willy takes the encouragement for what it is, smiling to himself as he strips off his catcher’s gear. Zo pats him on the shoulder silently on his way up to the plate.

As great as the first inning goes for Kyle, it goes in the opposite direction immediately for Ureña. Zo leads off with a sharp double, Javy sends him home as he triples three pitches later. Willy, in the on deck circle while Rizzo bats, knows what’s going to happen next as much as every other person in the park. Ureña fires home, Realmuto fires to third, and Javy’s at the plate before they can get the ball back to the Realmuto.

Wrigley Field absolutely explodes the moment Javy leaves the bag, and it’s loud enough to make Willy wince a little by the time Javy slides across the plate. Willy drops his bat so he can hug Javy as he returns to the dugout.

“El Mago!” Willy shouts, although he’s not sure Javy can ever hear him over the screaming.

Rizzo keeps the line going by singling smoothly to left, and Willy sees the first pitch Ureña throws him well out of the hand, and then even better as it sails into the bleachers. 4-0 Cubs, in the first, and they haven’t made a single out yet.

Realmuto and the Marlins’ pitching coach head out to the mound after Willy’s rounded the bases and hugged Rizzo and gone back into the dugout. The Cubs don’t end up scoring any more in the first, but they do get a couple more baserunners. Not exactly a promising start for the Marlins.

The game continues much in that vein, and it’s reminding Willy more and more of the first complete game shut out he’d caught for Kyle, against the Marlins in 2016. Of course, that game had ended on well over a hundred pitches, while Kyle’s only thrown thirty seven pitches through the first four innings.

It’s not a no-hitter, so Willy’s pretty sure there are no rules against talking about it, but he can’t be sure until he hears Jon teasing Kyle about throwing a Maddux in between innings. Willy’s nearly certain Kyle can get it done today, too. With Javy at short, the defense is as solid as it gets these days, and Kyle always manages to be more economical when he relies more on soft contact than strikeouts. He’s certainly brought his best stuff to this game. And if not for the bloop single in the second, Willy would almost expect a no-hitter.

A double and a single for Willy later, and Kyle’s not the only one getting teased about making history in the game. A cycle would be pretty damn amazing, Willy’s not going to lie, but he’ll be happy if they can just get Kyle a win. Which is thankfully looking pretty good, what with their current 7-0 lead.

“Complete game today, huh?” Willy asks as he and Kyle walk back to the dugout after the top of the eighth. Kyle’s pitch count is somewhere in the eighties, there’s no way Joe can pull him now.

“We’ll see. You have a triple to get, don’t you?” Kyle shoots back, lifting an eyebrow. In game, that’s as close as Willy will get to a bright smile, so he takes it for what it is and pats Kyle on the back in gratitude.

Much as the Marlins such, they still have a few decent pitchers, and it’s not going to be easy to get a triple off of Barraclough, especially since Willy’s leading off the inning and had no chance to see what he may or may not have working for him.

The first pitch drops in for a called strike, but Willy just takes a breath and digs in. There’s still plenty of the at bat to go.

Two balls, three fouls later, and the count is 2-2. The crowd is very loudly on their feet for him, and when he signals for time and steps out of the box, he closes his eyes for a moment to just soak it all in. The energy humming through the air, the excitement surrounding him, the support, the sheer noise. He’ll never truly get used to this feeling, and he can’t imagine getting tired of it.

The next pitch is easy out of Barraclough’s hand, and Willy hammers it along the first base line, taking off from the moment his bat makes contact. It was hit hard enough to make it into a triple, and Willy’s going to damn well make sure he doesn’t get cheated of his bases.

He takes a quick turn around second, not daring to waste the time to look back into right, but he can just tell that the throw is about to come in to the third baseman. Desperate, Willy pours on a last little bit of speed and drops down to slide headfirst into the bag.

There’s the familiar feeling of his body moving quickly across the dirt, but just as quickly, it’s cut short by a harsh impact and a flurry of sensations. An umpire’s voice barks something, another voice gets loud in response, but Willy can’t make out the words over the rushing in his ears and the pain shooting through his shoulder.

“You okay?” the third baseman asks, and Willy can hear the third base coach calling for a trainer. It doesn’t matter, though. Willy knows he’s done for the season.

He accepts a hand up from the third baseman, wincing when the movement jars his shoulder, and takes a long moment to just breathe through the pain. When he can move again, he looks up to see Joe and PJ, the trainer, only a few steps away from him.

“Shoulder,” he says through gritted teeth. PJ nods and steps in close to examine it, running the lightest of fingers over it. Sucking in a breath to keep from crying out in pain, Willy fixes his gaze carefully past PJ, where... Surely that can’t be the Cardinals catcher from his dreams. He’s got to be hallucinating somehow.

The apparition winks and walks over to Willy. “I gotta say, you made my job a lot easier with that slide. I thought I was going to have to go with giving you a concussion from a foul tip, and I’m just not a fan of that. Congrats on the cycle, though. And enjoy your pitcher getting the win.”

Before Willy can so much as process what he’d said, the other catcher smirks and slowly fades away, leaving Willy staring into empty space. He’s dragged from his thoughts when PJ stops paying attention to his shoulder and taps him on the jaw instead.

“You hit your head?” the trainer asks.

“No,” Willy says, meeting PJ’s eyes carefully. “Just shoulder.”

“Okay,” PJ mutters distractedly, returning his attention to Willy’s shoulder. He puts one hand on Willy’s back and uses the other to press down on his collarbone. Willy barely resists shouting in pain, instinctively arching away from the touch as he can feel his collarbone moving inside his body.

“Breathe,” Joe reminds him, putting a hand on Willy’s uninjured arm. “I’m guessing he’s out?”

“Yeah, you’re done for this game,” PJ confirms. He steps away so Joe can wrap an arm around Willy’s waist and guide him towards the dugout to a round of applause from the stands. Each step jars his shoulder and he doesn’t have the breath to respond when Martín, pinch running for him, wishes him luck.

“I was safe?” he asks Joe dumbly.

Joe pauses for the briefest of moments. “Yeah, you were. Not by much. You wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t slid.”

“Okay,” Willy says quietly. There’s really nothing else to say.

One of the other trainers, Matt, takes over escorting Willy through the dugout, through the crowd of teammates offering weak well-wishes and condolences. Willy doesn’t respond to any of them, but notices Kyle’s conspicuous silence when Willy walks past him.

“You’re gonna get your win,” Willy says, trying to wipe the ashen, gutted look from Kyle’s face. It doesn’t work. If anything, Kyle goes even paler, hunching into himself.

“Come on, Willson,” Matt prompts gently, and Willy continues on his trudge before Kyle manages to respond.

 

A bad AC joint separation is the diagnosis, and unsurprisingly, Willy’s season is over. He’s scheduled for surgery the next day, but he’s comfortably resting now, and he’s not as upset as he’d thought he might be. It’s probably easier knowing it’s coming and being able to prepare for it. Kyle got his win with his complete game shut out, so it was worth it, and hopefully Kyle will keep on winning, all the way through the playoffs.

There’s a knock on the door, and then a nurse sticks her head in, smiling at Willy. “You’ve got someone here to see you, honey,” she says, stepping aside to let Kyle into the room.

Willy had expected Kyle to look happy after his performance tonight, not for him to look like they’d just gotten swept out of the playoffs by the Cardinals or someone equally awful.

“Hey,” Kyle says quietly, perching on the edge of the chair next to Willy’s bed as if he’s hesitant of his place there. Willy offers him a smile, using the remote to push the bed upright so he can take Kyle’s hand with his good arm. “How bad is it? Will you be back in time for playoffs?”

“Spring training,” Willy offers, hating how Kyle’s face falls at the news.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Kyle says. He drops Willy’s hand and scrubs a hand over his face, more visibly upset than Willy’s seen him in a long time. “And right after you got back, too. You deserve better than the crap this season.”

“Shouldn’t have slid like that,” Willy says awkwardly, shrugging his uninjured shoulder. “At least it’s not worse. The doctor said the surgery should be fairly straightforward.”

“You didn’t mention surgery,” Kyle says, still too quiet, but Willy knows him well enough to know that Kyle had put the pieces together even before Willy’d said anything. He just hadn’t wanted to accept it.

“I’ll be okay. At least it’s not my throwing arm, I can still pick off your baserunners,” Willy says lightly, trying to wipe the dejected expression from Kyle’s face.

“Rude,” Kyle says immediately, but he does smile ever so slightly, so Willy will take it as a win. “How long’s the recovery time?”

And Kyle’s back to focusing on the negative. “A month in a sling, physical therapy through that and another two months, then I can start returning to full activities.”

“Are you going to be going back to Venezuela?”

Willy swears under his breath, staring morosely at his immobilized arm. “I guess not, while I’m rehabbing. Probably just for Christmas then.”

“Sorry,” Kyle says, looking miserable again.

“Shouldn’t you be home resting? How many pitches did you throw tonight?” Willy asks, trying to distract his pitcher from being upset.

“I only threw 94,” Kyle mutters, ducking his head as Willy reaches out to swat him on the arm. 

“You threw a Maddux! Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“I don’t know, I was more preoccupied with you being hurt! And don’t say it’s not a big deal, or that we have other catchers, because I know it’s a big deal to you, and it is to me too.”

“Still, that’s a big thing to do. I’m really happy for you. You should be proud of that,” Willy says, taking Kyle’s hand again and squeezing. “And you got your first win since going on the DL!”

“Lost more than we won,” Kyle mutters morosely, but gives a weak smile for Willy’s benefit. “Oh, Javy told me to tell you he’s going to try to stop by and see you tomorrow. He also said to tell you that he’s pretty sure he’s mad at you.”

“Because of my slide?” Willy asks, confused. He would’ve gotten hurt anyways, but Javy doesn’t know that, so maybe he’s mad at Willy for his ill-fated slide into third. Not that Javy would have any room to talk, though, considering what he does on the bases just about every single game.

Kyle shakes his head. “I don’t think so, but he wouldn’t say. He was acting weird.”

“He-“ Willy starts, but breaks off to yawn. “He’s always acting weird.”

“Weirder than usual,” Kyle concedes, affection clear in his eyes as he looks down at Willy. “I should probably go, let you get some sle-“

“No!” Willy says, too quickly. Kyle looks taken aback, features starting to tighten slightly with concern. “Just… Will you stay for a little bit? Just until I fall asleep?”

“Yeah, of course. And I’ll be here as soon as they let me in after your surgery tomorrow,” Kyle reassures him, glancing at the closed door behind them before leaning in for the briefest of kisses. 

Willy tries to smile around another yawn, but doesn’t feel particularly successful. “Better not miss your workout. Buss’ll be pissed.”

“I’ll get there early so I can get it in before coming here,” Kyle promises. Willy’d expected nothing less, since he’s sure Kyle has no desire to have an angry strength coach after him. “Get some sleep. It’ll all be okay.”

“I know,” Willy mutters, letting his eyes slide closed at last. After all, the baseball gods had promised him he would only lose this season, not next season or his career.

 

The first thing Willy notices when he wakes up is that his shoulder doesn’t hurt. The second is Kyle’s voice, slowly coming into focus as Willy wakes up enough to open his eyes.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Kyle’s voice is gentle, but it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to conceal being upset, so Willy’s pretty confident that his surgery went fine. “How’re you feeling?”

“Floaty,” Willy says after a moment’s pause. He can’t feel any pain in his shoulder, or really much of anything through his body. Kyle’s hand holding his feels like it’s the only thing keeping his body from flying away. 

Kyle cracks a faint smile. “Yeah, you’re on some pretty strong painkillers. Surgery went well and you should be recovered with plenty of time to have some downtime and then ramp up before next season. The doctor seemed pretty pleased with how things went. I’ve been keeping the team updated and they all pass along their well wishes.”

Slowly digesting the information, Willy closes his eyes to relieve the bright lights of the room above him. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it. You can go back to sleep now if you want.”

Willy’s about to say that he would like some water before he falls asleep again when the door opens, revealing a very irate looking Javy. The infielder scans the room, scowling when he sees Willy awake.

“Hi?” Willy asks tentatively, wincing when the single syllable makes Javy’s scowl deepen.

He steps into the room, standing at the foot of Willy’s bed with his arms crossed. Willy really wishes he wasn’t lying down completely flat in the face of his teammate’s very visible anger.

“You knew this was going to happen,” Javy says flatly. It’s not a question.

“Los dioses del béisbol lo hicieron,” Willy protests, switching into Spanish so as to avoid Kyle hearing what they’re talking about.

“I don’t care if the baseball gods did it, you knew they were going to and you did nothing!” Javy shoots back. “And you don’t get to hide this from Kyle, he deserves to know.”

“Javy, maybe this could wait until Willy’s home and feeling a little better?” Kyle suggests. Bless him, but Willy knows Javy’s not going to give up on this until he’s gotten his anger out. He doesn’t get this furious easily.

“No. You want to know why he’s injured?” Javy asks, turning to Kyle this time.

“I know why he’s injured. He slid into third and separated his shoulder,” Kyle says calmly.

“No, he’s injured because he did something stupid and made a sacrifice to the baseball gods,” Javy snaps. “Isn’t that right, Contreras? Tell your boyfriend the truth.”

Willy closes his eyes for a moment, hiding from Kyle’s seeking gaze. “Yeah. He’s right.”

“What are you two even talking about? What do you mean made a sacrifice to the baseball gods?” Kyle asks, eyes locked onto Willy’s.

Willy sighs, forcing himself to not look away. “You remember how you said sarcastically that you must be cursed? You…were actually cursed. I got the baseball gods to undo it.”

Kyle just stares incredulously, shaking his head slightly. “I…” he starts, but seems to have no intention of continuing.

Javy saves him from stammering by interrupting. “So what’d you sacrifice, Contreras? Your season? Your career?”

“Season,” Willy admits. “We’ve got Avila, and Rivera, and…”

“So you did this on purpose.” Kyle won’t look at him now, and there’s a horrible deadness to his voice.

“I was just getting rid of the curse,” Willy mutters, instinctively trying to retreat into himself. He’s reminded sharply of why he’s here when his left shoulder doesn’t cooperate.

“Yeah? And what exactly was the curse? I wouldn’t win a game for the rest of this season?” Kyle demands. “And so you decided to sacrifice your season, by getting hurt, for me, without consulting me?”

“Not just the season, indefinitely. I-I just wanted to help.”

“You remember that you’re part of a team? That you don’t get to decide things like this on your own?” Javy demands.

“I’m sorry,” Willy murmurs, going to scrub at his face before remembering that he can’t use that arm. Instead he rolls over onto his right side, avoiding the accusatory gazes of his two teammates. His shoulder’s starting to ache and he’s exhausted and he’d just wanted to make things right again.

Although Willy can’t tell who the sigh from behind him comes from, he recognizes the feel of Kyle’s hand on his back. “I know you were trying to do the right thing. You should’ve given me the choice to handle this myself, considering I was the one cursed. Or maybe it would’ve been possible to split the sacrifice somehow. Either way, I deserved to know beforehand.”

“I’m sorry,” Willy repeats, still refusing to roll back over. If he has to look into Kyle or Javy’s disappointed gazes, he’s going to lose it.

Kyle’s hand squeezes once more and retreats. “Your surgeon will be back this afternoon and will go over things with you, and the trainer said he’d stop by as well. Your phone’s on the table here, and Jon promised to visit you tomorrow, before you get to go home. He offered to let you stay with his family for the first few days, at least. You should probably take him up on that.”

Despite the matter of fact, impassionate words he’s saying, Kyle’s voice shakes ever so slightly on the last couple of sentences. It’s barely noticeable, but Willy’s stomach drops even further at how upset Kyle is.

“I’m sure I’ll see you back at Wrigley at some point,” Javy says coolly. Willy manages a jerky nod, holding himself still until he hears two sets of footsteps and then the door opening and closing. He rolls over onto his back, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in short huffs until the pain from his shoulder fades enough for him to get in a deep enough breath to release it in a quiet sob. 

 

Willy wakes up for the second time that day, with the sound of the door closing loudly. Since the doctor and trainer had already stopped by, it’s most likely a nurse, but Willy can’t ignore the faint spark of hope that it’ll be Kyle.

“So,” Jon Lester says, slouching in a chair and propping his feet up on the edge of Willy’s bed, “you fucked up, kid.”

“What?” Willy asks, jabbing at the button to lever the bed upright.

“Your boy was sulking around the park today, even though he won yesterday, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he was so upset. That, and he and Javy weren’t being too subtle in talking about it.”

“I suppose you’re here to yell at me too, then,” Willy mutters, still miserable.

“Nope,” Jon says easily. “I’d be pretty damn hypocritical if I did that. I made a deal with the gods, too, once upon a time.”

“You did what?” Willy asks, sitting upright before the slow-moving bed gets to that point. The twinge of pain it causes in his shoulder is studiously ignored in favor of staring at his pitcher.

“The same thing you did,” Jon says. “Only I was a lot more selfish. You were at least trying to do right by somebody else.”

“What’d you do? What did you give them? Why?”

Jon leans further back, one eyebrow traveling upwards to quiet Willy’s stream of questions. “I’m sure you’ve heard about how Rizzo and I first met when we were both part of the Red Sox?”

Willy nods. Everybody knows about how the Sox wanted Rizzo, just a kid at the time, to meet the talented lefty who had beaten cancer before him.

“I was just a rookie when I got sick.” Jon’s gaze is directed at Willy, but he can tell the pitcher’s not truly seeing him. “I had no idea, beforehand. My back was hurting. I got scratched from my start and they sent me back to Boston for tests. I thought – at first I thought the doctor was looking at somebody else’s results. I had a back injury, not cancer.”

“Jesus,” Willy breathes, shaking his head. Jon must’ve been a kid back then, younger than Willy is now.

Jon cracks a faint smile, though it looks painful. “I was – devastated. They said it was treatable and they caught it early and I was young and in good shape and everything, but… I was alone and young, my whole team was across the country, my parents were back in Washington, and I was terrified. I spent that night in the hospital and as I was falling asleep I just prayed that I’d be able to pitch one more game in the bigs. That’s all I wanted, just one more game.”

“Let me guess, you fell asleep and dreamed you were on a baseball field,” Willy puts in when Jon seems to lose himself in his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Jon says, shaking himself back into the present. “I was standing in the middle of the outfield, which was my first clue that something wasn’t right. I started heading towards the mound, and somebody told me to stop. I turned and saw a Yankees pitcher, so naturally I walked faster, but he grabbed my arm and stopped me. He said, ‘You told us you wanted one more game. What would you do for it?’”

“I was young and stupid, Willy. I just wanted to play baseball. I told him I’d do anything. He looked pleased and said they could work with that, but first I’d have to play to earn it. So I went out there and pitched. Hardest game I’ve ever pitched,” he says, laughing a little. “Every damn hitter was so good. And I was just a rookie who’d been pitching terribly my last several games before getting diagnosed with cancer, but I got through nine innings. Gave up three runs, but that was apparently enough for them. They took my deal, I got healthy, and I’m still here.”

“So what’d they take?” Willy asks. His first thought would’ve been that Jon got exactly one more game in the Majors, but it’s been a decade and he’s still going strong.

Jon rubs at his brow, no trace of the faint smile he’d had earlier lingering on his face. “They took…someone who was important to me.”

“They killed-“ Willy starts, horrified, before Jon cuts him off quickly.

“No, no, he’s still alive,” Jon assures him. “I just wasn’t important to him anymore. I got better, was ready to start pitching in games again come Spring Training, and he was barely talking to me anymore. I figured it out when I got back to the Sox after rehabbing in the minors for a bit. But I met Farrah on one of those rehab assignments, and I wouldn’t give her and the kids up for anything.”

“I…wow,” Willy says. That doesn’t seem fair, for the baseball gods to take something else from a kid who’d already lost part of his rookie season and battled cancer.

“Baseball’s cruel sometimes, kid,” Jon says. “Consider yourself lucky that you’re only losing a month of the season and the playoffs. But you gotta talk to Kyle and Javy, or else you’re gonna lose a lot more.”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Willy admits miserably. “I was just trying to do the right thing, and I get why they’re pissed, but…”

“I can’t do it for you,” Jon says, not unkindly. “My advice? Don’t worry about it at the moment. Just rest, get some painkillers for that shoulder that I can tell is hurting you, and think on it once you’re a little more clear headed. I’ll take you home with me when you’re released tomorrow, and you can dedicate your energy towards not getting murdered by my sons.”

Willy must look more than a little freaked out at the prospect of jumpy children with a fragile shoulder, because Jon laughs as he gets to his feet. “Don’t worry, I won’t let them break you. They’ll be at school a lot of the time, anyways. It’ll all work out, you’ll see.”

 

“Farrah? Would you mind dropping me off at Kyle’s apartment after you drop off the boys?” Willy asks, three days after his surgery. He slices the sandwich he’d just made, sliding it into a plastic bag for Hudson’s lunch. It’s not the easiest of tasks with only one functional arm, but he’d rather struggle with it than leech off of the Lesters without helping out at all.

“Of course, honey.” Farrah passes plates of scrambled eggs and toast to her sons, then slides one over to Willy. “And eat something. You look like you’re already losing weight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Willy says, obediently taking a bite of the toast. He probably has dropped a couple of pounds, given how his stomach seems to rebel at anything he eats these days.

Farrah reaches across the kitchen for a napkin, smoothly swatting Willy in the arm as she does so, a silent reminder of her constant scolding whenever he calls her ma’am. Willy just hands her the completed lunchboxes for the boys as an apology.

“You let me know when you want to be picked up, alright?” Farrah asks. She’d spent the entirety of their stop to get flowers arguing that she should just park and stay with him, but Willy knows she has errands of her own.

“I’ll text you,” Willy says, biting his tongue to keep from snapping when Farrah reaches over to unbuckle his seatbelt for him. “Thank you.”

“Happy to help,” she says, smiling at Willy as he gets out of the car.

Max greets him at the door, meowing loudly and thunking her head into his leg repeatedly. Willy meows down at the kitty, carefully avoiding stepping on her as he scoots past. Heading into the kitchen to drop off the flowers he’s been awkwardly trying to balance on his left arm without putting any weight on it, Willy nearly drops the vase in surprise. Normally, Kyle’s as meticulous about keeping things clean as anybody who watches him pitch would expect, but the kitchen is a disaster. 

There’s only a second of hesitation as Willy glances down at the sling holding his left arm immobile before deciding to jump in and do what he can to clean. Loading the dishwasher and wiping things down, certainly, but washing the larger things by hand might be difficult.

He gets it done, though, with a lot of balancing against the edge of the sink and a decent amount of water that needs to be cleaned up off the floor afterwards. But it’s done and it’s one less thing Kyle has to do when he gets home.

Next, he arranges the flowers in the middle of the kitchen table, where they’ll be immediately visible when Kyle gets home. And hopefully the game won’t go into crazy extra innings so he can be home at a reasonable time. 

And now Willy has to jump into the part he’s been putting off for as long as possible: the letter he’s writing to Kyle. It’ll be easier to get his point across in writing, when he can’t watch Kyle’s reaction or forget what he wants to say midsentence. But he still doesn’t particularly know what to say. 

_Dear Kyle,_ he starts. 

_I’m sorry. And I’m not going to offer excuses, because I take full responsibility for what I chose to do, but I do want to give you an explanation._

_I love how you play the game. I love that you’re the opposite of the way I play, and that only I can really tell how you’re feeling during a game. I love how quietly confident you are in yourself and how there’s nobody on the field you trust more than yourself. But with your injury early this season and then not getting any wins, it seemed to me like that was fading, and I couldn’t stand to see that._

_I tried a lot of other things to break the curse, too. I was desperate by the time I decided to sacrifice my season for your career. I was tired of trying things and waiting for your start to see if they worked, you pitching brilliantly, and the team losing. I don’t regret what I did, but I regret how I handled it._

_I want to make it clear that the reason I didn’t tell you was not because I didn’t trust you. I do trust you. I was just trying to protect you, but I see now that you probably would have wanted to protect me too. If our positions were reversed, I would almost definitely have reacted the same way as you. When the baseball gods offered me the option, I did hesitate. I wasn’t going to give up my career immediately for you, but a month of the regular season and however deep we get into the postseason? I still think it’s worth it. And I might’ve done it differently, but it didn’t seem like there was much of an option. It’s not like the baseball gods said ‘You can make a sacrifice to undo the curse, and we’ll give you three days to consult with your team on what sacrifice and by who.’_

_If I redid it now, though, I would probably have told you right after I did it. I made the deal the night after your last loss, the night when I came over in the middle of the night. I was being selfish then. I wanted to soak in my last few days and catch for Jake and Lackey one last time and I didn’t want you to worry about anything other than your next start. I didn’t know before that night that it would take a sacrifice to fix things, or I might have told you beforehand. I don’t know. And I can’t undo it now. But I’m glad you can win games now and that you can trust in yourself and be confident on the field again._

_For the record, I just undid the curse, I didn’t make it so you would always win. That’ll just be because you’re an awesome pitcher._

_I love you. I know it’s too early to say that, but I do. All I wanted to do was make things right again and see you happy playing baseball again. I’m really sorry._

_Love,_  
_Willson_

__

Willy stares down at the letter, wishing there was something more he could do than write words. Or even to just choose better words. But that’s about as good as he’s going to get in English and it should get the heart of his sentiment across, not to mention that his shoulder is starting to ache and he needs to go back to the Lesters and do his rehab exercises.

By the time Willy shoots Farrah a text that he’s done and she can pick him up whenever, Max has gotten sick of being ignored. She leaps up on the table, nearly knocking Willy’s letter off the table as she yowls at him.

“Sorry, kitty,” Willy murmurs, reaching out a hand for her, which she rubs her cheeks against enthusiastically. She tires of that quickly, though, and redirects her attention towards Willy’s injured arm, sniffing and nosing gently at his sling.

“Mrow,” she says, looking up at him with big green eyes, purring gently. 

“I’ve missed you,” Willy admits to her, letting her press against his forearm and purr loudly. She startles when Willy’s phone buzzes on the table, leaping back to the floor. “Sorry.”

It’s Farrah, unsurprisingly, so Willy tucks his letter under the edge of the vase, bends down to give Max one last pat, and leaves.

Farrah greets him with a smile and his painkillers, holding out two pills for him to take as soon as he gets settled in the car.

“Did everything you wanted to?” she asks, passing along an open water bottle as well. Willy’s not sure how much Jon had told her, and he doesn’t want to reveal too much of his and Kyle’s personal life, so he just nods as he swallows the pills.

 

Although it’s weird to not be playing a game or watching from the dugout, it’s surprisingly nice to watch the game at home with Farrah and her kids as the Cubs coast to an easy win over the Mets. Regardless, Willy’s looking forward to start rehabbing at Wrigley and watching games from the dugout again. 

He’s not expecting anything when he shoots a text to Javy, congratulating him on his homer and three hit night, leaving his phone on the coffee table to help Farrah get the boys to bed. Hudson demands to be read three separate bedtime stories since Jon’s not home yet to put him to bed. It’s nearly an hour before Willy returns to his phone, and there’s three texts from Javy waiting.

>Thanks man  
>How’s the shoulder?  
>Miss having you around here

Willy’s pretty sure his face is about to split open from his involuntary smile. It’s not Javy’s usual effusiveness, but it’s a start. He’ll come up with a better apology when he’s back at Wrigley later in the week, and for now this is enough.

“Can I help with anything else around the house?” Willy asks Farrah after he’s texted Javy back. 

“Oh, no, honey,” Farrah says quickly, patting his arm. “You look tired and you only have one arm, I’ll just make Jon do some chores. You’ve been beyond helpful already.”

“If you’re sure…” Willy trails off awkwardly. He feels too ramped up to sleep, considering how he’s barely done anything all day. He misses real workouts.

Farrah smiles, in the midst of putting a few action figures back in their bin. “I am. Go get some rest.”

“Good night, then. And tell Jon the same to him,” Willy says, starting to retreat to the guest room just as his phone starts to ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Willy,” Kyle says, sounding far more like his usual self than the last time they’d talked.

“Kyle?” Willy shuts the door behind him, tentative. What if his apology wasn’t enough? What if Kyle’s still unbelievably angry at him?

There’s a deep breath from the other end of the line. “I got the flowers and your letter. And you cleaned. And… Willy, can I come pick you up? It doesn’t feel right without you anymore. I want you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:  
> -serious injury  
> -mentions of surgery and hospitals
> 
> Please drop a comment or kudos or come talk to me on [tumblr](https://snarky-saxophonist.tumblr.com) if you liked it!


End file.
